


Come What May

by yeel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Multi, Trigger Warning: implied suicide, trigger warning: blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-24
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 10:57:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeel/pseuds/yeel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My name is Dave Strider.<br/>And if you're reading this, whoever you may be, the first and foremost thing that you must know is that there is always hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This would be my first post, so bear with me. I've been carrying around so many ideas in my head that they were inevitably going to end up on the internet somehow. I plan to write at least thirteen chapters, updating when I can. So far it's mostly a doomed timeline Dave writing about his choices and what went wrong in his session of the game. There won't be any trolls, because in this timeline Alternia was never created and the beta kids never had any outside help or advice. This is essentially an alternate Dave's autobiography, telling of his regrets and his aspirations, and eventually, his death.

My name is Dave Strider.  
And if you're reading this, whoever you may be, the first and foremost thing that you must know is that there is always hope. All is not broken, all is not beaten, all is not lost to chaos and destruction. Though life can seem like such a fickle thing, flaking like the thin ashes of burning paper in the hungry maw of flame, that does not mean that the lives of others are too fragile to touch or to change. If we change, we adapt. If we are touched, we react. Without adaption, without reaction, what would be the point? Like a saying once went, without the bitter, could you ever appreciate the sweet? Without cold and rain, would you ever learn to love the warm rays of the sun?  
What would life be without the harsh contrast of death?  
This, my dear friend, my love, and my reader, is the ultimate paradox- the ultimate irony -of life.

For you see, I've been drifting for an eternity through this blackend void I had once considered my home. I have lived the lifetimes of a thousand men through a thousand eyes that were all my own. I have seen my demise through the eyes of a stranger innumerable times. Like Prometheus, I was once a god, and met my fate after risking everything in the balance simply to better the life of a man. I have been brought down far further than death, forced to endure the same pain I have felt for a thousand years.

The silence that cuts deeper than any blade I've felt against my skin is what gets to me the most. All I can hear is the sickly grime sticking in my lungs every time I take a breath of this rancid air, thick with smoke and heat, and the sickening th-thump of every heartbeat as my simmering blood runs like fire through my veins. My disgust is practically pungent. 

There is always hope.

I didn't always feel as if I was unworthy of the pallid skin that seemed to crawl with every breeze that dared to stir a hair and make me shiver and twitch and squirm. I was once care-free. Indifferent. I was once whole.

And I once believed in hope.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gomen  
> I add to chapters as I write, so updates may come in sentences or paragraphs. This chapter is unfinished. :B

As I look upon his sleeping face, all I can bring myself to feel is contentment. So unlike his awakened self, this sleeping boy before me lacks the scrunched muscles and taut skin over dexterous fingers as he talks with his hands. No crinkle at the corners of his eyes. No stress, no smirk, no smile. The body before me portrays only rest, only innocence. In this calm state is the only time that I seem to have left to appreciate how damn beautiful he is. In the long hours I spend keeping watch for degeneration are the hours that I use to imprint the sight of him in my mind. I have mapped out every freckle on his pale back as he sleeps on his stomach, face half-buried in the fluffiest pillows he could alchemize, his arms wedged under his chest or flung out to the side, fingers dripping off the side of the bed like a drop of precipitation lingering to slide down the face of a window.  
I make my own constellations, map out stories of our life together in the shape of invisible lines across his skin. The faint swell of a piano trickling from the speakers on the other side of the blackened room make him stir momentarily as Moonlight Sonata comes to a close. His fingers twitch, as if dreaming of the feel of keys beneath them. I sometimes find myself thinking of where he might be or what he might be dreaming now that Prospit and Derse are gone. His breath hitches and his eyes look around beneath closed lids. What might he be experiencing? In the brief moments that I allow myself to sleep, all I see is the absence of light beneath my eyelids.  
Where could he possibly go?

**Author's Note:**

> I'M BACK


End file.
